Pictures of the Ocean in an Envelope
by TheGhostisReal
Summary: How you react to death, how you react to love, how you react to change, and who you react to at all. Reaching out for help, even though you don't really want it, is this who you've really become? Depressing, mildly AU, and very slash. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

They made Warren drive with him to Louisiana. He had a business meeting, his forced companion, his father's funeral. Remy mentioned briefly, sullen, at the beginning of the ride he had thought his father to be immortal. He propped old boots on the dashboard of a car worth more than sulking Remy could possibly fathom. Warren said nothing, nothing to his remark or his posture, nothing to try to console the younger man. He didn't even like him, what was he supposed to say anyways. He wasn't sorry, his passenger deserved the worst things that happened to him, he didn't even want to share the car with him. Kid hitched rides up here, why couldn't he hitch a ride back.

"Y'don' have'a be doin' dis, Wings." In four hours, it was the second time he spoke, and the last until Warren pulled into a hotel parking lot and announced he couldn't continue driving. "_D'accord_," and he followed Warren silently, obediently, slept sound in a pile on the floor with the ever-present brown trenchcoat for a blanket. Didn't dare ask for a room, or even a bed, left Warren to his business calls, none of the outgoing womanizer he played, Remy didn't disappear to the bar, didn't touch a standard liquor stocked refrigerator. Warren didn't complain, took no notice of Remy sitting alone in the corner. Didn't want to notice Remy, out of the corner of his eye. Cold, sad, young, utterly alone, strangely beautiful. Warren put off the glances he caught out of the corner of his eye until he was sure Remy was fully asleep. Only then was it alright to stare at the soft glow of auburn hair that trickled into his face, angled features, slender hands he raised under his head for lack of a pillow. Warren still didn't have enough sympathy in him for the frequent villain to lend him one.

He woke to the sound of the shower pounding, not hard enough to cover sobbing. And Warren ignored it. Pointedly. He turned over in bed and pulled the blankets above him and pretended what he was hearing was far away- it was easier than accepting that his traveling companion had feelings. He said nothing when Remy's eyes were wet and tired the next day, knees pulled up to his chest, dirty boots on the car seat, staring out the window, scanning the horizon.

"We won't be in Louisiana until sometime tomorrow."

"Huh." He fell asleep, head on his knees, curled into himself in the passenger seat. Unruly hair covered his face completely, still, under two fingers was a coin, something to defend himself if need be. They had thought it funny the first time he came to the mansion, when Logan informed them, healing and bleeding, never to wake the man called himself "Gambit." The man in the passenger seat was not the self-assured flirt, the capable, smug thief who first presented himself to them. Warren moved a piece of his hair to the side. His face was almost gaunt, haunted, exhausted. His shoulders heaved. Warren sighed, pulled the car over on the side of the open dirt road. The sun was going down, they were out in the middle of Virginia-nowhere, he could have made it at least close to hillbilly territory, but he couldn't keep going. Remy stirred, shook his head, looked around. He palmed the coin in his hand, Warren couldn't keep up with where it had gone.

"Virginia?"

"Somewhere around there."

He nodded, pulled himself out of the car. Warren sat in the backseat, when he turned around, Remy was gone. He didn't wonder where the boy had gone. Wherever he wanted to run off to was his own problem. Warren wasn't there to babysit him, just to get from Westchester to New Orleans with no one dead. As long as the thief made it to New Orleans, he didn't care how he got there. The sun went down behind the trees, allowing for Warren to catch, out of the corner of his eye, those distinctively purple explosions. Sighing, he took to the sky and followed the lights, the sounds, until he had to dodge debris to land. The Cajun had created a clearing around himself, the ground at his feet pulsating with raw energy dangerous. Trees were splinters making mountains at the edges of a circle crafted by the form burrowed at its center. He yelled, cards exploded from around him, widened the clearing. Warren hardly touched the ground, hovered over the charge, sideswiping the indiscriminate projectile hurled not at him, not at anything, but past him, into the forest. He didn't dare to touch Remy. Bursts of his charge crackled off the brown duster, the dirt on his boots. His shoulders heaved with the force of it all, he shook with each desperate breath. Warren stayed just behind him, unaware if Remy knew his presence. Such displays, unbridled power, emotion, were unlike him- the reserved, cool, self-amused thief prince they were nervous of, who's side he was on changed with every threat. This wasn't the Remy he hated, this was a child, a sad, scared child with power he didn't understand, perhaps didn't even want, never asked for.

"Go 'way, _baiseur_, good sir." His voice was hoarse, barely comprehensible above his accent and French vulgarities.

"M'supposed to get you to Louisiana. So you can either get in the car or I can carry you. Pick." Warren still didn't touch the ground, didn't want to put himself in the way of Remy's not-inconsiderable power. Remy still didn't look at him, didn't move from his position in the dirt, curled into himself, shaking and crackling with raw energy. Warren heaved a sigh, yanked him into the air by the collar of his coat, back to the car. He didn't wonder about the explosions, the force of power he had never seen the other man display, outbursts or reactions. To him, Remy was a hindrance, like taking a small child, or sullen teenager. He could feel a slight wince of kinetic charge running up his hand- when had Remy been able to charge people- as he threw the younger man in the backseat of the car and slammed the door, threw the car in gear and sped back down the highway. He locked the doors as soon as his passenger sat up, glared in the rearview mirror at him, don't even think about trying that bullshit again. Remy watched him in the same mirror, shuffled a pack of cards, the energy flying between the cards, but never at Warren. None of this sullen, sad anger had been directed at him. He didn't wonder why. They made their way into the American south with no words, stiff, awkward silence making it difficult to breathe, Warren's head hurt and he wanted to be rid of the thing in the backseat of his car.


	2. Chapter 2

He pulled them into another hotel, paid for the night, and watched Remy follow him to the room again, silent, almost invisible. Warren relegated himself to the bar, staying there until the early hours of the morning, kept to himself, drinking to avoid his traveling companion. He slunk to the paid room to find Remy sitting on the windowsill, his long legs dangling fifteen stories in the air above the hotel pool. Warren smelled cigarette smoke, sighed deep, and fell on the bed.

"Sorry." Remy's accent almost eliminated the r in the word.

"Better be. You're lucky the Virginia hillbilly cop squad didn't see what you did to their greenery."

Remy flicked his cigarette butt in the air, it exploded harmlessly above the pool, to no one's notice but them. He stayed in the windowsill, watching lights flicker on and off, Warren saw them in the reflection in the black depths of his eyes. Even the red at the center seemed dulled where before they had been bright with life. Nothing about the man leaning out the hotel window was bright with life.

"What's it like, _Ange_?"

"What?"

"De sky, bein' out 'dere."

"You wouldn't understand. It's the best thing I can think of."

"Better'an makin' love?"

"Yeah." Warren turned over in bed and pulled the comforter over his face, effectively ending Remy's inquisition. He didn't hear the other man close the window, or the shower hidden emotional display of the night before. For once, he actually thought about it, wondered if Remy was going to lose himself out the window, if he would have to explain the splattered mess of the thief to authorities, to the Professor. But morning seemed to bring with a sense of peace to Remy, he even chanced to Warren a smile over coffee in the car. Warren didn't smile back. He had finally reached the Louisiana border, that much closer to being rid of the boy. By evening, he was leaving the boy at the city limits with hardly a good bye. Remy took a tattered black backpack, his only luggage, and watched him drive off. In the rearview mirror, he saw Remy walking along the same road he drove. Remy had put up no complaints about leaving, despite the sticky heat, the simple fact that Angel obviously was going in the same direction.

He lost Remy as soon as they got into the city proper, and checked himself into an upscale hotel for the week. He had business meetings with the property owners of a port, things that made him stare out the window longing to fly, to give the company to people who cared more and go out and save the world like the others. Angel knew he couldn't do that, the X-Men needed his support from this end, he was almost useless in battle. But money, financial backing, that he could do. He found himself wondering where Remy was- where he had lost him, what trouble he was getting himself into, if he was going to have to end this little trip bailing the other man out of jail. He rested on the hotel bed, glad to be rid of Remy, rid of driving, at least for the week. He rolled over and grabbed the phone receiver, called the mansion in Westchester.

"Warren?"

"Hello professor. Just letting you know I got the thief here as well."

"How is he?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know? We didn't talk. Seemed fine, though."

"If you insist. Take care of yourself, Warren."

"Thanks. You too."

He hung up and fell asleep immediately, exhausted. He dreamed of energy, bright and dangerous and containing all these things, sorrow and desire and desperation and home. He didn't want to have those dreams. He tossed and turned and yanked the comforter around his shoulders and stared at the lights of the French Quarter, didn't wonder if Remy was out there. Or tried to convince himself not to. Rising laughter and the strains of jazz music trailed through his window, keeping him awake and still thinking. Wondering if Remy was out there among the drunken masses, stealing sex and money from college partiers indiscriminately, his slender fingers trailing along their young bodies, taking what he needed, nothing more. His smug, disgustingly arrogant smile as he knew he had them at his every beck and call, every whim met by adoring followers. In Warren's mind there was nothing left of the sad, tiny scared thing in the Virginia forest, barely grown out of childhood and hardly coping with so much loss. It was easier that way. He put his hands behind his head and watched the lights play across his ceiling, purple and green and gold, but none of it that distinct energy he associated with Remy.


	3. Chapter 3

He never actually made it outside of the hotel that night. Instead, he watched the lights play out against the ceiling until the laughter of the outside lulled him to sleep, the way he remembered the mansion in its best days, when they were younger, there was laughter and play outside his bedroom door, the kind that was usually instigated by Bobby, sometimes Hank. Before Logan and their thief prince and his on again, off again, never really girlfriend even came to the mansion. He slept calm and sound finally, the lights and laughter of the city to calm him, and didn't dream again of Remy. But he would find again the next morning it was hard to be rid of a boy who owned the city in his own way, his presence was everywhere, on the streets, in the alleys he was sure he heard Remy's name. And in the café where he got his morning coffee, he thought he saw men toasting to "the late thief king." But he went about his obligatory business lunches, long meetings in boardrooms, kissing the asses of men far older and more inclined to these sorts of things than him. His wings itched, as he knew they would, to take off into the late fall sun, over the red gold trees, the spires of the city, over the celebrations of the late thief king, his banished mutant son at its center.

The only thing he didn't imagine was the truth- That Remy was wanted here no more than he had been in Westchester. That none of the guild was expecting to see him home for his adopted father's funeral, but they had to allow him his time to see Jean-Luc LeBeau off. He didn't imagine that Remy was sitting at his father's tomb, before all the passed leaders of the Thieves Guild, his head in his hands and apologizing over and over that he hadn't been there, for all his failures and absences and not being the son Jean-Luc had wanted when he took Remy in and gave him a name. Warren didn't know that Remy didn't have a name until Jean-Luc took him in- He didn't know that Jean-Luc wasn't Remy's father, that Remy didn't know who his father had been, Jean-Luc was the only family Remy had ever known, he didn't know how important that made Jean-Luc to Remy. He had to find a family, he wasn't simply granted one, made it all the more important to him, all the more haunting when it was lost. In his most malicious imagination, Warren didn't close in on the truth of Remy spending his night under that trenchcoat, his backpack for a pillow on the mausoleum floor before his father. They didn't cross paths that day, or the following two. Warren had been in New Orleans for three days before he saw its thief prince again.

It was early morning, a slight fog had settled over the city, Warren was searching for a decent cup of coffee. Remy looked like he hadn't slept in days, but he was dolled up to appear alive and awake. He met Warren's eyes and there in Remy was sadness, deep, profound loss and emptiness and all these things Warren was ill-equipped to deal with.

"Come with me."

"_Quoi?_"

"Please?"

He nodded, followed Warren to the cafe he had been frequenting for three days now. Remy fidgeted, pulled his coat closer, poured sugar into his coffee. He held the mug with both hands, didn't look at Warren.

"Talk to me."

"What about?"

"Anything. You need someone to talk to."

"_Non._ You wouldn'wanna' listen."

"Yes I do." Without thinking, Warren reached across the table and took Remy's hand away from the coffee mug, into his. He traced up the thin lines of Remy's wrist, tried to make the other man meet his eyes. Remy wouldn't. He closed his hand to Warren, pulled into himself, drank his coffee in silence. He scanned the room, red on black eyes darting back and forth, but never settling on any one thing. He pulled his long legs up to his chest, held them to him, stared at Warren, finally, intently.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why so good to Remy all'a sudden?"

"Even I can't deny you needed it."

"Don' need your pity, _monsieur._"

Warren sighed, shook his head. He didn't want to offer his help if Remy was going to be contentious, but part of him wanted to walk around the table and take the boy into his arms until everything was alright again. He wanted to trail his fingers through Remy's hair and find him a warm bed, a meal besides coffee, something to brighten his demon eyes. He didn't stand, didn't approach, never laid a hand on Remy. Remy pushed the coffee mug to the center of the table, it glowed soft with the energy he carried in him, Remy watched it, his brow furrowed, he reached out to touch the field of power around the mug. It was a display of power that was entirely unnecessary, something about it was uncontrolled, almost frightening.

"Its not pity. Its called concern."

"Still don' need yours."

"I'd say you need it, but…" Warren shook his head, stood. "Obviously you can take care of yourself. No one's gonna' be happy with you if you let that coffee cup explode, though."

"Can't turn it off."

"What?"

"Don' know how."

"Yes you do."

"_C'est_ different."

"I've seen you turn it off. You know how."

"Not anymore, _Ange._"

"Turn it off, Gambit."

He was beyond words by that point, staring at the incriminating glassware, his arms around himself, barely whispering that he didn't know how. Warren didn't believe him, didn't want to believe him, didn't see any reason to, until he knew the pain etched into every fiber of the boy's being. This was the desperate display of energy he had seen in the Virginia forest, the grandiose posturing of a cornered animal making himself larger to prevent death he had already resigned himself to.


	4. Chapter 4

"You are aware mutations show themselves at times of great stress in the bearer's life, correct?"

"You stress that in your lectures, Professor." Warren had lead Remy back to the hotel, bade him shower and take care of himself, and called the mansion. If anyone knew what was going on, it would be the Professor, even though he maintained an inability to get inside Remy's head.

"So consider where Remy is emotionally right now. It is not unusual for his abilities to shift."

"He mutilated a good portion of a forest in Virginia."

"That is worrying."

The shower turned off. "He's back."

"Ask him to come back to the mansion."

"I will."

Remy was standing in the doorway of the bathroom. Warren's loaned pajama bottoms were a size too big, drawstring tied tight around Remy's narrow hips, he had never been quite big enough, hair was soaked wet, stuck to the sides of his face, dark, he wasn't wearing a shirt, Warren had given him one, but it made no difference. Droplets of water ran down his chest, he leaned against the doorjam, not in sensuality, but in exhaustion. Any other time Warren would assume Remy was attempting to seduce him, and likely kick him out of the room without a second care to where he was going, but his half-closed eyes were unfocused, his arms closed around his chest, nothing was erotic outside of Warren's wandering gaze. He wrapped a towel over Remy's shoulders, remained there perhaps a moment too long, his hands on Remy's arms, feeling the younger man shivering slightly. This was how he found out Remy had been sleeping in the mausoleum, that the Guild didn't want him there, but that his father had willed him the Patriarch of the Thieves of New Orleans. That he had turned down the leadership, didn't want it. That he was telling the truth, he could no longer control his power, and it was growing, he hadn't meant to charge the coffee mug or destroy more than some leaves in Virginia to let off steam. By the time the words had escaped his lips, with hardly enough coherence past the stammering and the heavy accent, he was sitting on Warren's hotel bed with the towel wrapped around his naked torso like a blanket. Warren sat on the end of the bed, he reached out to touch Remy's damp hair. He met the other man's eyes, and Remy's eyes were darkened, the red almost gone, replaced by fear. He softened to Warren, leaned into his touch, breath deep and slow. Their eyes met only a moment, Remy squeezed his shut and flinched away and held himself tighter, a small child trying to become smaller.

"You can stay here."

Remy looked up.

"If you want, you can stay here. You don't have to go back."

"Back?"

"To the thieves, I mean. You still have to go back to the mansion at the end of the week." Warren put his hand on the other man's shoulder, Remy let it stay.

"_Merci_."

"Yeah." Warren turned and sat on the end of the bed furthest from his unwanted companion, holding his head in his hands. One of those moments he regretted staying with his X-Men for so long, and this was fairly high on the list. And he realized Remy's arms were sliding around his shoulders and the younger man's head on his shoulder, and the worst part was he knew he didn't mind it. Remy's arms were warm, his heartbeat against Warren's back reassured him that this boy, with whose care he had been trusted, still lived. Remy still trembled slightly, his hands splayed out on Warren's chest, he took deep breaths until Warren was sure he had fallen asleep, the cool fall of his still damp hair on his shoulder. Warren tucked him into the hotel bed, the blankets to his strong shoulder, excuses to wonder how his skin was so soft, his deep breath so smooth despite the cigarettes he smoked so constantly. He remembered once, when they thought they liked the Cajun, Hank giving him hell about the smoking. He remembered once seeing Remy and Logan sitting on the porch in front of the mansion, smoking and talking, and he remembered once being a little jealous Remy never talked to him.

"Unhh…" Remy reached out, not awake by any means, catching Warren's fingers in his, curling his hand around the other man's, and settling back to a sound sleep. Warren scoffed. The display was immature, childish, and dependent, nothing strong or capable about it. But still, he found himself using his other hand to run his fingers through Remy's hair, over the side of his face, tracing his hands against the soft skin. He didn't dare to pull his hand away, let Remy keep it, ended up sleeping beside him, his hand curled between their faces on the pillow, knuckles against Remy's cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

He woke to an empty bed and the steady drip of a coffee machine. The other side of the pillow was still warm, still smelled of Remy, spicy with tobacco and and liquor. Warren rolled over, buried himself in the place where Remy had slept. He hadn't dreamed, or if he did he didn't remember, the only thing he knew was the sense of peace burying himself in the memory of Remy, the aroma of coffee from the room around him. The mattress dipped, forced Warren away from his reverie, to stare up at the man who had shared his bed last night. Remy held out to him a coffee mug, smiling, warm, entirely too real for this creature he had been trying so hard not to perceive as human enough. But he still took the coffee, gave Remy a smile, one that made him blush and look away. In morning light there was a healing bruise on the side of the younger man's face, slight yellow, one he pretended wasn't there. And Warren was happy to oblige, pretend he hadn't seen. He let Remy sit on the side of the bed and planned somewhere in the back of his head, how he could ask the boy to leave, to return to Westchester on his own. Because Warren had two more days of meetings and he didn't want to hide the thief prince for that long. Whatever this was that was boiling under the surface, he was either going to kill Remy for it, or destroy himself in the process.

Remy didn't try to talk to him, didn't seem to want to. He stared out the window at the tourist friendly parts of the French Quarter, his coffee on the windowsill, lit a cigarette and watched the sky. Last time he had done that he had asked Warren about flying, this time his mouth would begin to form a word, no sound would come out.

"The Professor wants you back at the mansion."

"No one else do."

"Does, Remy. No one else does."

"You call me Remy now?"

"I guess."

"We ain' even sleep 'gether yet."

"Yet? Were you planning on it?"

Remy said nothing, lit another cigarette, and leaned against the window frame. His eyes closed, rather than meet Warren's. There was no hint of an answer, much less one that made any sense. Warren didn't want to make the first move, or any move, he wanted only to understand what was going on in his companion's mind, if he had any want for Warren, if this was just some cry for attention or affection he thought he might be lacking. What he thought he might receive from Warren, why, he didn't know.

"I have a meeting. Think about getting back to the mansion."

He left Remy sitting awkwardly in the window, watching him, and he saw the boy out the corner of his eye as he entered the car that was driving him to the meeting. He hadn't moved. And he didn't go far, it seemed, when Warren came back he was against the wall under the window, throwing cards into a pile and singing softly to himself. If he spoke French, he thought he might understand Remy a little more. If nothing else, he would know the song Remy was singing. Instead, Warren raided the mini-bar for overpriced cheap wine and sat beside him, offered a bottle.

"_Merci._"

"Yeah." Warren fought his need to brush his fingers through Remy's hair, to hold him and tell him it would all be alright, to kiss away the torrent of feeling behind his eyes until he laughed and brought back the magnificent bastard they knew Remy to be. Instead, he sat silently and shared the bottle of wine with the other man, took off his shirt to let his wings free, the first time since Virginia. It felt good, to let them flare out, the cool wall meeting his back where his wings spread and the drowsy happiness of the liquor, every time they passed the bottle, their hands met a little longer, fingers traced over each other, completely unexpected when Remy grabbed his hand. The skinny thief prince pulled himself into Warren's lap, swung his legs on either side, his lips crashed into Warren's and he kissed the other man for everything he was worth. His fists clenched in Warren's hair, mouth opened, trailed his tongue along the other man's lower lip. Kissing back was not an option, but also the only option. Remy's skin was smooth, pulled tight over trained muscle, Warren's hands moved down his arms, pulled the hands off his waist, and stood, letting Remy fall uselessly to the floor. His darkened eyes went wide and he stared up at Warren, took deep, shaking breaths.

"Out."

"_Oui, monsieur._" He only heard the door shut before Remy was gone. He was alone. Remy was out on streets where he wasn't wanted, Warren was in a godforsaken humid wasteland that tried to pass for a city, with the taste of a man he didn't want to care for lingering on his lower lip. He dropped the half full wine bottle in the trash bin and sunk into the bed, fell back, to unfamiliarity. He sat up, and grabbed Remy's coat, that damned brown duster he was never without, smelled of everywhere he had been, cheap booze and cigarettes. He'd wait for Remy to come back for it.

He didn't. He never came back for the duster, for another kiss, for solace or a warm bed. Warren was forced to return to Westchester on his own, driving in silence save for occasional interludes of music. He figured they would know soon enough, if they didn't already, he had lost the younger man. There was no proof Remy hadn't gone back to the mansion himself, unlikely, but it had been what Warren told him. He had showed himself more than willing to take orders from Warren. He reached the mansion without incident, a shorter return than journey without a passenger, temperamental as Remy had been. He missed the company. And he thought about the kiss, that display of affection, and need he had chosen to show to Warren, perhaps a sense of gratitude for giving him somewhere to stay, human companionship.


	6. Chapter 6

He'd be told later that Remy hitchhiked back to Westchester on his own, relied on the kindness of strangers, as he had tried to rely on Warren. Considering how that had worked out, he was surprised that Remy made it back to the mansion alive and relatively unharmed. He was asleep on the couch, unsurprisingly unkempt, the other inhabitants gave him a wide berth, there were probably only three people in the mansion who trusted him, much less sought his company. So Warren took it upon himself to pull a blanket over the boy, put the duster near his hands, and left him well enough alone.

Of course they saw each other, the mansion was a small place, and they crossed paths but never spoke. Remy avoided his eyes, shuffled his feet and glanced up and down, once even chanced a smile to Warren, disappearing immediately after as he was prone to doing. He was rarely in the same room as Warren for long, and it wasn't with a sense of anger, but rather, with one of resignation, he had taken upon himself this lot in life.

The kitchen smelled of spices and cheap liquor, coffee and searing meat. Remy poured as much bourbon in his food as his mouth, and didn't turn around to look at Warren. He hadn't been to see the Professor either, from what Warren had heard, he had only spoken aloud to Storm and Logan. Warren sat at the kitchen counter island and coughed, wanted Remy's attention. He didn't know why.

"_Ange_?"

"Gambit."

"So Remy lose his name 'gain."

"Remy."

"Is sorry."

"For what?"

"Layin' _un_ on ya'."

"I'm not going to tell you its alright. Its not. It wasn't, whatever."

"'Dere's enough food for two."

"There's enough food for six."

"Y'know wha' I mean."

"You want me to eat with you."

"_Oui_." Remy offered him a plate, it smelled spicy and foreign. He sat beside Warren, and picked away at his food, his eyes scattered over to Warren at random, over the plate of food, and if he caught Warren's eye, there was the slightest hint of a smile. It wasn't one Warren wanted. He wasn't sure what he wanted, but it wasn't that hopeful smile Remy gave him, and it wasn't the strangely delicious food Remy offered. Those were ploys, things to make Warren forgive him when he didn't want to. When he wasn't ready to, if he ever would be, Remy demanded his forgiveness too often without saying a word. He wondered if the fact that he was eating the offered food meant he gave Remy forgiveness.

"I really am sorry." He murmured between bites, not daring to look at Warren.

"I know why you did it."

"I don'."

"You were lonely. You latched onto the first thing that offered to help."

"I s'ought about you pre'y like a'fore 'dat."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"_Ange_, lemme 'dake ya' ou'."

"Let you… What?"

"Da'e. Like, dinner an' a movie."

"A date?"

"_Oui_."

"No."

"Oh…" Rey stood, and he threw easily half his plate of food in the trash.

"Don't throw that out. You need it, look how skinny you've gone and made yourself since you invited your sorry ass back in here."

"Too la'e." Remy made sure he knew he left, letting the door fall slammed on him, the noise rung, Warren didn't realize he had devoured the food Remy had offered, whether it was in penance or a simple gesture of friendship, or part of this crazy scheme to win his heart. Warren bolted from the kitchen stool, the door flung open, he chased after the memory of Remy, down the hall, he stayed in a small room on the third floor, the door always locked, he'd never seen the inside of the room.

"Remy?"

"Ain' locked'a door ye'."

Warren allowed himself to step inside. It was a clutter, full of knickknacks and dirty clothes. Remy was draped across a mattress on the floor, piled with mismatched blankets. The room looked like him. Warren crept across it delicately, careful not to stand on anything, and sat next to Remy. The younger didn't look at him.

"Goin'a' rub in my face?"

"Rub what in your face?"

"I ain' goin' ou' wif' ya."

There was long silence as Warren planned his words, how to explain the torrent of feelings, mixed desires, without raising Remy's hopes, or crushing them altogether. He wasn't sure he wanted to let Remy down completely.

"Can I kiss you?" Remy broke the silence, choosing his words slowly, carefully, to make his accent less.

"Yes."

Remy didn't try anything drastic, he didn't pull himself into Warren's lap, or pet him. Simply, he put his hand to the side of Warren's face, met his eyes only a moment before they fluttered closed, and let his lips slide against Warren's. His kiss was soft, gentle, warm and inviting for more. Soft fingers made their way along the sides of Warren's face, flicked his tongue out gently to lap at his lower lip. He took it gentle between his teeth, kissed it, and released him. He laid back down.

"_Merci_."

"You're not half bad at that."

"Kissin'?"

"Kissing, yes."

"Wan' anoder?"

"Remy." Warren stood. He let Remy grab his hand, rest his cheek against it, looking so young- Warren had never thought how old the boy was, he knew Remy was younger, possibly much, but he let his hand wander into Remy's hair, against the back of his neck, and didn't know what to say.

"Lemme' prove… Lemme' prove I be a good love for you."

"You aren't. A good fling, a good one night stand maybe, but I don't love you, I don't think I can."

"'Den I be 'dat."

"Don't lower yourself."

Remy hung his head, nodded. He let Warren go, let him leave, without sound. Something he knew the Gambit to be had been inexorably lost, the person he had hated wouldn't have accepted no for an answer so easily. They boy he had known would have stopped at nothing short of throwing Warren to the bed and having his way with him. This new creature merely hung his head and let him go.

Warren took immediately to the sky. It was his way of calming himself, the way the air ran over his body, the flutter past his wings, sun beating own on his bared skin. He knew the route around the mansion like the back of his hand, let his eyes fall shut for a moment, to erase from his mind Remy's room, the heavy air of desolation even among all the clutter. The room was a prison, he had interred himself there, from even that brief encounter with the space Warren knew that. He didn't want to know. He didn't want the boy on his mind, didn't want to have entered his life at all. Because Remy had not entered his life, he had been dragged, kicking and screaming, into Remy's. The way out was open, but he couldn't leave. It was only alright to kill him if you didn't land the blow yourself, let him die off where no one could see. His wings swept close to the mansion walls, the curtain was pulled shut against Remy's window. The curtain may once have been a blanket, its garish browns and purples faded from the sun, thick to keep out light, or cold, or anything outside. The window next was open, letting early spring light in, slight breeze, picture perfect. He circled the old mansion, once, twice, and landed on the roof. His wings stretched, spread, gathered the sunlight, and he shot into the air again, as high as he could fly, deep breaths, deep breaths with no thieves and no confusion, just the sky around him, wind, the humans couldn't get to him at this height. No one could reach him.


	7. Chapter 7

Note: Thank you everyone for all your support: BJ2, EchoDancer, girl who put it on her alerts whose name I cannot remember, I love you all!! BTW, I'm looking for someone to RP with/bounce ideas off of/solicit advice from. Hit me up on AIM- isnotaboutdrag.

Remy stayed in his room as long as suspicions were not raised. He made only the most perfunctory of socializations, and everyone blamed it on loss- of Rogue's affections, of his father, no one knew Remy had kissed him, begged for his attention. Warren did everything he could to convince himself he didn't care. Found himself at Remy's door, a deep breath to steel himself before he knocked.

"Ain' no one here you wanna' deal wif'."

"Let me in, Gambit."

"Le'cherself in, _homme._"

"Open the damned door."

"You open id'"

Frustrated, Warren shook the door handle, only to find it give way. The door had never been locked. Remy was curled into a chair he had never seen in a corner, cigarette perched between his lips, staring through a crack in the makeshift curtain. The room was smoky, smelled heavily of tobacco and coffee. Remy was pulled into himself, thin legs curled to his chest, shoulders slumped.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Forge'."

"You forget?"

"_Oui._"

"Come downstairs. Now."

"Yessir." Remy pulled himself from the chair, head hung low, followed Warren to the kitchen. He sat on the counter, swung his legs childishly. He never looked at Warren. When he had broken completely, who had pushed him this far off the deep end, he didn't want to know. He threw together leftovers from a group breakfast and handed it to Remy, watched the boy pick at it with disinterest.

"Eat, kid."

Instead, Remy looked at him, demon eyes clouded. He let the plate rest on his knee, reached out to Warren. The room fell silent. The hands Warren took were hot with his energy, what he couldn't control anymore, obviously he had spoken to no one of that. Obviously he was glad his mind was shielded, even though he didn't know why. Warren moved the plate and finally latched on to him the way he had wanted to since this began. He clutched the boy to him, let his fingers fan out over Remy's back, feeling all that pent up energy and sadness in his small form. The boy was trembling.

"Whatever it is you're doing to yourself, Remy, please. Stop. Talk to me about it, talk to anyone about it. Get wasted with Logan at four in the morning and tell him about it, help yourself. I can only get you so far."

Remy's voice was choked. "Don' talk'a no one."

"Me? Don't tell anyone? Or you haven't talked?"

"Nei'er? Both."

"Okay. I won't tell." He released Remy, left his hand on one shoulder. "But you have to eat something."

"Fair 'nough." Remy remained on the counter, some of the food made it's way into him, the rest dislocated on the plate. Warren had to be satisfied with that.

"Don' make me leave."

"Why would I?"

"S'de only place Remy never been kick' outta'."

"I didn't know."

"Didn' wan' nobody know."

"Then why tell me?"

"Dunno'."

"Is that what's bothering you?"

"_Non_."

"Then what is it?"

Remy leaned into him, held his head. Warren moved his hands, trailed his own fingers through the boy's hair. Remy clutched his shirt.

"Ever'tin'. Miss _ma pere_, nobody really wan' me here, leas' all you, an' my powers goin' insane. Ever'tin' wrong, _Ange_."

Warren rubbed his hands over Remy's shoulders, held him like he would a small child, if he even liked kids. Like he imagined a mother would comfort her baby. Remy sunk into it like he had never been comforted before. He would learn later that he hadn't, until he was almost ten no one had turned a kind hand to him. He was told these things once as Remy stood on a balcony half naked and smoking. Years from now, the now with the sad scared desperate child in his arms. The rest of the movements were natural. He took Remy back to his room, where he would be more comfortable, bundled him in a blanket, kissed his eyes and sat with him in silence. Even as the blanket began to glow with his power. He didn't know if Remy could hurt himself with his own power. Some people could, others were guarded. The charge spread, over the mattress, the pillow, the other blankets. Warren backed away, the boy mumbled in his sleep. Warren slammed the communications box on Remy's wall, was greeted with the Professor.

"I believe this is the first time this box has been used."

"It's Remy. He's about to blow up his bed and he doesn't seem aware."

"Warren? May I ask what you're doing in his room?"

"I was worried about him."

"I'll send Dr. McCoy."

"Right." Remy had begun to thrash, the victim of a vivid nightmare, mumbling something about a man named Fagan, who Warren had never heard of before. The blanket began to spark, almost to burn.

Hank bustled into the room, pulled Remy into his arms, despite the fur sparking and glistening with the energy Remy was giving off. The bedding exploded almost immediately after they left his touch. Warren followed them to the medical ward.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Yeah, this is fluffy. Thanks for all the love! Still looking to solicit a writing buddy/RP buddy, so, AIM: isnotaboutdrag. I don't bite, I swear.

The first instinct was to buy Remy a new bed, a nice one, with sheets that matched and a warm blanket because he knew the Louisiana boy didn't do well in the cold. He watched fur electric on Hank's arms pop off, explode in tiny bursts of pink, the kind of pink he associated with Remy. The boy had gone completely limp in the blue mutant's arms. He rested him on a medic bed, strapped him into machines and tubes and wires and checked his vitals and put numbers in his computer, and finally the energy around him dissipated. Warren stood in the doorway of the room, watched the boy, he seemed smaller than usual.

"You can come in, Warren."

He left. Couldn't wait for Remy to wake, didn't want to be there when he was again aware of his surroundings. He was well aware that Remy hated the medical ward, and whoever got him there in the first place would be the one to endure his ire. He made arrangements for a new bed to be delivered, hoped Remy's door wasn't locked again when it came, he didn't like the thought of that old, stained and pathetic mattress shoved into the back of the room, now gone to Remy's mutations. Warren sifted through the tatters and ruins from the small explosion, tried not to go through Remy's other things, he didn't want to know what they were, or where they had come from. There were photographs, trinkets and a seeming fondness for locks. Not locks that served any purpose, just locks, on the floor. He guessed the thief prince, now thief king had to practice sometime. He could see Remy, casually half dressed, sitting crosslegged on the bed, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, testing the locks, his tools to the side. But it wasn't the tiny mattress of a street kid's habit, it was the fine, furnished bed Warren had ordered, warm blankets and the browns and golds that Remy seemed to like, if his room was any indication. Found himself hoping, stupidly, that Remy would be grateful.

But Remy didn't wake up, at least, not for the next few days. Warren didn't want to visit him, or rather didn't want to be seen visiting him, peeked in on the boy only sometimes, in passing.

"Oh, hello Warren. Concerned about our explosive friend?"

"I, uh, no." Warren turned to leave, being caught by Hank, but the doctor didn't stop talking.

"It's the most amazing thing. His powers are actually evolving before our eyes. The scope of his charge is expanding, I believe he may actually no longer need to touch something to tap into it's energy, but we'll need to wait until he wakes to test that theory."

"Do you know why he's out?"

"I believe that has more to do with the health implications of his rather reclusive lifestyle than his powers. I have my issues with our resident thief's way of living, but until now they've not seem to have had an adverse affect on him."

"Huh. Think he'll wake up soon?"

"I do hope so."

Warren nodded. Remy stirred, shifted, dislodging a tube inserted in his arm. Hank moved to replace it, and a slender hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. The fur shook with charge.

"Good morning Remy."

"Don' put 'dat shi' in me no more."

"As you please. It was only to feed you while you slept." Hank moved the tubes to the side. "Now, Remy, how are you feeling?"

"Dunno'." He was staring at Warren.

"Would you like Warren to leave?"

"Wan' ever'one leave."

"I need to check your vitals."

"Don' touch."

"Remy, listen to me. I know you don't like these sorts of things, but I need to make certain you're alright. Three days ago, you fainted, and nearly blew up your entire room. I need to check your vital signs, find out what made you collapse, and get you back on the right track. You understand?"

"_D'accord._" He lowered his head, allowed Hank to check vital signs, his eyes, his heart. Warren stood in the doorway, too inexorably entwined in the scene to leave. Remy watched him the entire time, silent, his auburn hair fallen in his face and his eyes sunken. Still as defeated as he was the day he collapsed.

"Now, I need you to come in every morning. We need to find out the source of this new charge you have. For now, you're fine, and I believe Warren did something very nice for you while you were sleeping."

"_Ange_?"

"Yeah?"

"You do some'in' nice for ol' Remy?"

"I hope so."

"Show."

"Right. Come with me."

Remy pushed himself up. Hank held his arm to steady him, but he was shrugged off. Warren, instead, reached out for him. He knew Remy had to be weak, after being in that bed for three days, hooked to tubes and wires, but the boy barely touched him, "'fraid 'm gonna' 'splode you too."

"Ah." He led Remy back to his room watching the boy refuse to make eye contact. He wanted to reach out, put his hand at the small of his back, anything, really, but he understood his fear. Opened the door for Remy.

The day before they had set up his bed, still small, to not take up too much room, but so much more than a mismatched mattress in a corner. Plush and comfortable, and Remy dove into it to burrow in the blankets.

"'Dis from _Ange_?"

"Yeah, well, you blew yours up."

"_Merci_." Remy touched everything, rearranged pillows, spread out. "'S nice. Y'shoul' si' wif' Remy."

"Okay." Warren couldn't hide his smile.


	9. Chapter 9

Notes: Sorry it's not longer, EchoDancer. Had to end here, or you guys'd be waiting another three weeks or so for chapters. Don't like to do that to people. Return of bastard Warren? Or am I giving myself too much credit.

He sat beside Remy, watched the younger mutant examine the blankets.

"Wanna' know a secre'?"

"What?"

"Mutie eye fuck wif' me some'imes. Don' do so good 'round bright. S'why got 'de heavy curtain."

"A secret for a secret?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I like your eyes." Warren ruffled his hair, and left Remy bundled in the new blanket, watching him as he left. It was too intimate for how he wanted to feel for the boy. And he had referred to his black on red eyes as his "mutie eyes". It raised a question he thought he might already know about how Remy felt for himself.

Sleeping in his own bed somehow felt lonely by that point. He had left Ororo sitting with Remy on the couch, the two a pair more like siblings than friends, and she had been away since before Remy left to see his father off. He wondered how much Remy told her, him laying his head on her leg and mumbling quietly in a sodden mishmash of language she seemed to understand. At least someone understood him. Someone had to. But Warren didn't relish the idea of his body curled around a pillow wishing he had someone to hold onto. He laid on his stomach to let his wings spread out, and finally thought he might be lonely because of this thing he had been dragged into with Remy, taunted with the idea of that sick devotion he showed his lovers, and turned it down. Or rather, turned it down as often as he did things that might make Remy think his misplaced feelings were reciprocated.

He played the avoidance game again. Stayed away from Remy, their social groups didn't overlap either way. There was nothing that made him stay anywhere near the boy, save for his worry. But Remy was playing at well, and he was playing the game expertly. He did his duties at the medic ward, letting Hank run tests and experiments to find where his powers were going to, joked and whined about the process in his beautiful Cajun tinted mess of English and French. Two months ago that voice was the most irritating thing he could think of. Playing at avoidance now, hearing him around the corner, he reveled in the sound.

Remy handed him a letter. He couldn't spell, and his handwriting asked for more effort than Warren would normally give the thief, but the letter was heartfelt, and in it's own way beautiful.

_Ange, _(of course he could spell in French)

_I'm sorry for what this old thief is been giving a man he doesn't deserve anyways, but he wants to offer one more time to take you out and treat you nice like he doesn't think anyone ever has. You can ignore me if you like, but I had to say one more time to give me a chance._

_ Because I think I might love you._

_ Remy._

Warren kept the note. He didn't go looking for Remy, didn't return any affections, but he kept the note. It was his real sign that Remy was cracking, that the loud, arrogant, charming thief had half the mansion wanting, he was breaking, over his power, or maybe over Warren, or losing his father. Maybe it was that everything happened at once. Or that Warren turned him down.

He wasn't hard to find. His laugh carried through the house, to everyone it sounded like they finally got their thief back stronger than ever. The only way Warren knew better was the hollow looks, empty smile he got passing in the hallway. He was sitting at a poker table with Logan and some new kid called Hellion, cards flying between his fingers and a sweet little laugh, empty bottles of liquor scattered on the floor. Warren stood in the doorway and marveled at the sureness with which Remy handled the cards, something he didn't have to think about. They flicked through his hands and he dealt, and Warren saw him flip cards in and out, he already knew who was winning this hand, this was Remy's world.

Logan snorted. "Gumbo's got a visitor."

Remy turned around and Warren saw his eyes light.

"I lose, be back boys." Remy turned his cards and sauntered to the other man, "_Bonjour_, c'n dis' one help you?"

"Can we talk?  
"_Oui."_

"Alone?"

Remy nodded, walked down the hallway with Warren, tugged his duster closer around a still thin chest.

"You wrote me a letter."

"Couldn' speak'a' you."

"You could have."

"_Non._"

"You have one chance. Prove you're worth my time."

"Fri'ay nigh? Dinner?"

"Sure. Find me when you're ready."

"Promise, Remy no' le' you down."

Warren scoffed. At least Remy had that little kicked puppy penchant for treating his love interests like gold, if nothing else he'd let himself be worshipped for a few hours, and have nothing to do with the boy again. Maybe test that rumor about his talents in bed before he let him down.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Again, it's short, I'm sorry. School and video games have distracted me. Apologies.

Been too long since he'd gotten laid.

Remy cleaned up well. He stood in Warren's doorway, forsaken the old brown duster for a black blazer, button down shirt, loose jeans. Auburn hair was tied back with an old shoelace, and when Warren stood to greet, he produced a single flower from inside his coat, an insipid romantic cliché that somehow rang right on him. His gloves covered his whole hands, for once.

"Nice gloves."

"_Merci_." The flicker away from them was something different altogether. He was afraid, afraid of the loss of control over growing power. He left the flower on his bed and let Remy take his hand to lead him outside. A car was on the sidewalk waiting, "had'a' borrow 'dis from Logan," Remy's sheepish admission, "so I gotta' be careful, _non_?"

"You don't have a car?"

"Onny' my bike."

"Okay. We'll be careful with the car, then."

"Promise." Remy opened the door for Warren, brushed his hand along his arm, not innocently. His hand curved at Warren's waist, and he let him pass. He drove fast, too fast, a little bit recklessly, through into the city proper. Made small talk, asked about his day and his life, his favorite song, his favorite film. Remy laughed for both, gave him his, the second with a raucous laugh. He curved the car into the parking lot of a small center, a café lit up in golds at a corner.

"_Ange_ a fan o' French food?"

"Sure, I guess, yeah."

"Ain' never take no one 'ere, is Remy's lil' secre'."

"Not even Rogue?"

"She _non_ like me no more."

"I'm sorry."

They welcomed Remy with open arms, familiarity, sat he and Warren in a quiet corner in the already quiet café. Remy conversed with the staff in easy French, turned to Warren to ask his wine preference, and whether he liked oysters. Dinner was a quiet, simple affair, Remy goaded Warren into talking about himself, delighted, it seemed, with every new revelation of Warren's tastes or preferences. He said almost nothing about himself, and insisted on paying. Warren didn't know how much the thief made with his dubious occupation, but the meal was extravagant, the wine drunk by the bottle and Remy's good mood infectious.

"Swee's or drinks?" Remy asked, standing outside the café. Obviously he thought the date was to continue further into the night.

"You think you did that well with dinner, do you?"

"I didn'?" Concern knitted his brows. He held his arms around himself and shuffled scuffed sneakers, the only part of him that wasn't perfectly arranged.

"No, you did good. Sweets, then drinks, maybe?" Warren offered with a smile, careful planned his night to get the sex he desired. Played to Remy's good intentions and tried not to show, not to convince himself he was using the boy in a terrible way. He even let Remy hold his hand, which made him blush terribly and try not to look at Warren. He wore contacts that lessened his demon eyes, at first glace, they looked brown. The illusion didn't keep if you looked closer. And in the back of his mind he knew he was enjoying this, enjoying being treated so well, eating chocolate cake with Remy at a fifties style diner that sold only desserts and watching him knock back bourbon like it was water at a high end bar. God only knew if Remy was even old enough drink.

"Remy?"

"I ge'a' name?"

"How old are you?"

"Dunno'."

"Got a guess?"

"Ol'er dan' twen'y, younger'an you?"

"Hey, I'm not that old." Warren afforded him a laugh, a real one, for the look of innocent confusion that passed Remy's features. He knew full well the boy was lying, but he knew also he could ask Hank if he really wanted to know.

"Wha's a beau'i'ful man like you doin' indulgin'a' likes o'me?"

"Trying to get laid."

This made Remy laugh, loud and a little bit shameless. And finally he kissed Warren's cheek, and he smelled of cigarettes and alcohol, the stubble at his jaw scratched and Warren didn't mind.

"Wanna' come 'ome wif' me?"

"Wondering how long it was going to take you to ask.

Drunk though he was he didn't crash Logan's car, but he did pull it into the garage crooked and laughed and wrote a misspelled apology note for his parking, pinned it to the windshield. He leaned into Warren, laughing and mumbling in French and English about what he wanted to do to his partner when they got to whoever's bedroom.

"How about mine?" Warren asked, predatory. At least that way he could kick him out when he got what he wanted. Or let him stay, the more Warren thought about it, though it might have been the liquor, the more he wanted to fall asleep with the drunken boy in his arms.

They tumbled into Warren's room, a childish shoving war that started in the elevator progressed to pushing each other down the hallway, Remy running ahead to try to pick the lock on the door. Warren stopped him, and they fell into his room. Remy didn't try to hide his smile. He pushed his lips against Warren's, pulling his hands down the older man's arms, pressed close to him, close enough to encourage the heat between them.

"Wanna' see _Ange_'s wings." He whispered, against Warren's ear, pushing his hands through his hair, kissed him, stepped back and watched.


	11. Chapter 11

Author: "I am so, so, so sorry for the delay. No excuses this time (just 65 chapters of Nabari no Ou, if you like manga, I recommend it highly) just me being lame and not writing. Figure if you're going to try to put this mess into comic canon, it takes place shortly before trial and Antarctica. Still kind of sort of wanting someone to rp with: isnotaboutdrag on aim."

"Then I want to see your eyes, little boy." Warren smiled, easing off his shirt and unstrapping the contraption that held his wings down. Obediently, he removed the contacts, shaking his head and blinking his eyes in discomfort. He met Warren's eyes, startling, demonic eyes, red on black that flickered over Warren's simple blues, then immediately distracted by his wings. Remy reached out, and Warren guided him to smooth over the feathers, comb his fingertips against them. Warren took his hand and pulled off his gloves, entwined his fingers with Remy's, and kissed him.

"'Dis fuckin'r' makin' love?"

"Can't it be both?"

"Didn'ink ya' wanned'a' love me."

"I don't know that I do."

"Y'wan' me'a' love you, _non_?"

"Yes."

"'Den I love you."

"I like that."

Remy kissed him, ran fingers down his chest and edged him back towards the bed. His fingers seemed to know just where to go to make Warren want this even more, proof of the rumors of his not-inconsiderable skill. His body moved erotic in every sense, perched over Warren and letting him want, encouraging him to need. The kinds of things, images, words, meaningless traces of his tongue he ran over Warren's throat and shoulders were unspeakable, profane and delicious. He worshipped Warren plain and simple. Guided Warren inside of him and whispered little words of worship in his ear even as they became mumbled and incoherent past the desperate invasion of sex. He clutched onto Remy and watched the way he writhed and bucked penetrated in Warren's lap. He was quiet, transported by the sexuality, this human contact he seemed to so desperately need. He urged Warren's hands down his chest, moved for to touch him intimately, extend their night as long as he could last.

And fell asleep in Warren's bed. Despite the large, plush pillows Warren insisted on, Remy was curled into the middle of his bed, resting on his own arms, still unclothed, and hardly making an attempt at covering himself. Warren watched him for a few minutes from the doorway of the washroom, fluttering his wings free of the last few drops of water. Nudged Remy's shoulder to wake him.

"Remy?"

A mumble, he curled further into himself and slept.

"Wake up."

"Don'wanna'."

"You're still in my bed." He let his voice show signs of irritation.

This shot Remy out of bed, grabbing frantically at his clothing, still tired attempts at apology. Pulling his clothes on, he reached out to Warren to say good night.

"You can stay, if you want."

"_Quoi_?"

"I just, well, was going to ask if you wanted to wash up."

"Oh…" Remy nodded, "_merci_."

He had lived up to his reputation, Warren didn't want to just let sex like that happen only once. Maybe once again in the morning would suffice, and he could finally get Remy off his mind, his curiosity satisfied. He heard Remy singing playfully past the roar of the shower water, he was mortal still, had feelings still, a long cry from the desperate tears he had heard in the hotel room, late at night when he thought no one would listen. Only a scant few months ago he wouldn't even speak to the boy in his time of need. And probably still would not, at this point, save for the necessities to keep the boy in his life, in case he ever needed this again.

"Thinkin'?"

"Not really."

"Wha' abou'?" Remy had pulled his pants back on, his auburn hair graced his shoulders with droplets of water.

"I'd like to do this again sometime."

"Wan' Remy'a' sleep over?"

"Sure." Warren wondered why he let the boy live his little fantasy, that he had gotten what he wanted and he wasn't being used.

He smiled wide and glowing and threw his arms around Warren, curled up beside him, he smelled like soap and the last remains of a liquor soaked evening- it occurred to Warren how little he knew about the boy since he had shown up and told no one his name. Scott had tried to have him thrown out when they found out he was a thief prince, kept looking for reasons for him not to belong with them, and still Remy seemed used to the mistrust and took the distance in stride. There were things he didn't talk about, the telepaths noted his mind was blocked to them, and his powers, somehow changing and hardly controlled and he acted like he was scared of them.

"Aren't you afraid this was too easy?"

"I ''dake wha' I c'n git."

"And you know there's a good chance I'm just using you for sex."

"Wha' I c'n git." Petulant, Remy reaffirmed his grip around Warren's waist.

"You're better than this, Remy. Find someone who actually gives a shit about you." Warren moved, forcing Remy's arms off him.

"If y'didn' give due shi' 'bou' me, y'wouldn' say'at."

He gave Warren pause. In a way, he was right, he wouldn't be trying to chase the boy off if he didn't care about him, at least, in some fashion. He had begun to dress again, and stood in front of Warren, head held low and eyes nowhere.

"_Bonne nuit, mon ange._"

"Yeah, g'night."

Remy bent and cupped Warren's face in his hands, kissed him, as soft and unassuming as he ever had, even intimate with each other he had hardly kissed. He met Warren's eyes, flashed an almost devious smile.

"I make real goo'breakfas', y'know."

"An important skill, I'm sure."

"Come in hanny' sometime."

"What do you make?"

"A lil' bi'o everytin'. I make you some come mornin'."

"Would you?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And what do I have to do to earn that?"

"Nuffin'."

"Fine. Sleep here tonight." Warren pulled his arms around the younger's waist and pulled him down to the bed, a simple goodnight kiss, and closed his eyes. He felt Remy curl into his side, and pulled the blankets over them both. The last thing, before sleep took him, were Remy's long fingers curling around his own. That strange charge built up in the boy was silent.

And Remy was gone when he woke. Warren pulled clothes on and made his way down the stairs to the main rooms of the mansion, greeted by the spicy sweet smell of someone cooking. Remy had promised him breakfast, he remembered, and it was Remy in the kitchen when he pushed the door open, already cleaned and changed to looser, less meant to impress clothing. An old dark hooded shirt from a music festival in his home city, torn jeans that hung too low on his thin frame. He turned, a grin lit his face in the sight of Warren.

"Sleep well?"

"Be'er 'an I di' inna' long bit." He didn't approach Warren, only continued to labor over preparations.

"Last night was good."

"Goo'nough fer' anodder try?"

"I don't know." Warren sat at a kitchen barstool, watched Remy intently. The boy still wore gloves.


	12. Chapter 12

Author: Big changes this update. The writer got a real job! Which is… Well, good for me, bad for readers. Hope you like. AIM me- isnotaboutdrag

He arranged the plate meticulously, something else to concern himself with, and rested it in front of Warren, eyes down and submissive. He didn't even allow their fingers to touch.

"But thank you."

"Anytin' fer' you." Genuine, open, if this was a mask it was too good and made Warren far more scared for the truth of the boy. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the truth of the fallen thief prince, those years no one knew about just before he arrived. He stood in the kitchen, on the other side of the island far away from him, let his hair hang in his face, tugged at his glove.

"Sen'in me somma' _ma pere_ tin's, been tol'."

"I-I'm sorry, your father?"

"_Oui."_

"Things you want?"

"_Je ne sais pas._ Wouldn' tell me."

"Hm." Warren tried to share the meal in silence.

"_Ma pere_ alrea'y give me 'de onny'ing I wan'."

"What was that?" He tried not to sound interested.

"Mah name."

"You said he adopted you."

"_Oui_."

"And named you?"

"_Oui_."

"How old were you?"

Remy shrugged. "'Bou' nine'r so, guess."

"All that time you had no name?"

"_Non._" He leaned against the counter, familiar, a slight lazy smile, breakfast reserved to a piece of toast, fried bacon and bitter strong coffee. Warren could smell the brew across the kitchen. He cleaned his plate of food and stood in front of Remy, slid his hands over the boy's arms.

"Let me pay you back for last night."

"How?"

"I'll take you out today, how about that?"

"Y'sure? Remy don' know somedays if'y' like 'im 'r' not."

"I don't know most days how I feel about you."

"'Den don' use time'n' money on me."

"But then who will I use it on?"

"Someone y'love back." He hung his head and pushed past Warren, letting their hands graze as he did. Gathered the dishes, cleaned the kitchen to erase the strange spicy sweet smell of Cajun cooking and ignored that Warren stayed in the room.

"_Dieu_." More irritated than angry, Warren looked up to see a curl of smoke, that strange distinct pink, fading up from the dishwater. Remy cradled his hand, shook it off. But Warren was already up, taking the boy's bare hand in his and kissing the slight burns of uncontrolled power.

"Where do you want to go today?"

"Anywhere if is wif' you."

Even then he didn't know the illusion was about to be broken, he didn't know what Remy was hiding, and deep down, he didn't want to know. He wanted, a part of him needed the illusion that everything was going to be alright and they might be able to make it work, the thief prince and the spoiled corporate heir could find common ground and love each other. He bought Remy coffee and walked through the town with him, learned about his name and how to make your own fun on the backstreets of New Orleans, which jazz bars didn't ask for any identification, and a sweet little story of the first time Remy fell in love on rooftops and under porches late at night where they wouldn't be caught. He laced his fingers with Warren's, even leaned on his shoulder for a couple moments.

Within the week Remy was once again their enemy, and, even worse- a murderer.

He was gone by the end of the month, happily thought dead. And Warren moved on. He fell in love again, with nowhere near the passion. Something was missing, perhaps Remy's sick sense of devotion, perhaps the war he had with himself to reach that bliss walking through the park with Remy's head on his shoulder. But he couldn't bring himself to be afraid for the boy they left shivering in Antarctica. Only Ororo and Logan seemed to miss him. Warren hated him, in his own way, for the Morlock tunnels and for the promise Remy made, that he loved him even before they drove to Louisiana. That mask, that insipid, conniving mask, too good, and the benefit of the charge around his mind that even the psychics didn't know what a deceptive little thief prince they had. No longer had, no one could survive that. Crying into Betsy Braddock's shoulder one night, claimed nightmare of the newly reopened wounds of the Morlock tunnels, the admission had only landed him in her bed. Sometimes when he kissed her he wished it had been that little brat had never betrayed them. And other days he wished he had never made love to the thing that called himself Gambit.

He snuck into the thief's room one afternoon when his new flame was on assignment. He buried himself in the warm blankets he had bought, his first and only gift, the only thing he had been able to give him besides the rare show of affection. He peered through the heavy, colorful curtain at the tops of trees and knew Remy had watched him fly. He lingered in the dusty room, tried to open some of the locks that locked nothing, found books in French he couldn't read. A bookmark was folded paper, drafts of the note he had given Warren to confess his feelings. He found things he wasn't looking for, folded into a picture frame, a single white feather, receipts from their date. He kept mementos, a little pack rat. There was a yellow envelope, tucked in with the books, photos of a little boy and his father, Remy was tiny and delicate folded up in the arms of the man who had given him a name. A message in the back he couldn't read, written in French, and even then not in Remy's lopsided handwriting. He had to assume it was from the late thief king. They stood in front of a rocky ocean outcropping, Warren assumed somewhere along the eastern coastline, and he carried the tiny Remy in his arms. They were happy.

Warren wished he could say the same for himself.


	13. 1500 Words about the Cold Remy

Antarctica

For a while, all he thought he would know of the world was cold. That cold and hunger would be the end of him, die alone and unloved like Fagan had said. Like everyone had said. Die all alone, nobody loves the little street rat thief. Not even the mutie's parents wanted him, throw the baby out with the bathwater. He was lucky he got saved, silly superstitious Thieves Guild thought maybe this devil child could save them. Test him through fire and suffering, through the streets with no name to give himself when he begged the tourists for bread or water. He had slept in a cardboard box, but he couldn't sleep in the snow. At least outside it was warm there, the Antiquary had been sympathetic in storm season. But he didn't want some tiny mutie rat ruining the good image of his kids for sale. Whatever that good image had been, he was ruined by the cold, it shot through his body with every gust of wind, constant wind and never ending light, always day, they had said this was the daytime, it lasted half a year. The light reflected off the snow, he had always hated the light and it didn't like him so well either. It was the mutie eyes, the black, Hank said, he was just a little bit sensitive to the light shooting off the snow into his eyes, glaring into his skin he could feel the burning though a thin prisoner's uniform just as he could feel the cold. So much so he could forget the hunger. He'd gone about not eating before, this was nothing new. He wished to every God he knew Rogue at least left his duster. All he had was this prison uniform they had thrown him in, put him to trial. He knew, more than knew every wrong he had done, and they had to remind him. He had to be punished, hoped for a quick death. He didn't deserve a quick death. He didn't deserve to live, and he only deserved to live with these sins. How could such a thing have hoped for love, the love of an angel at that. At first he tried to give up, lie in the snow and the ice and imagine it was his Angel's arms around him die in peace. This was all he had, the constant ice, unrelenting cold, and starvation creeping up in a body that had rebelled since day one. First the eyes, left him with no home cast out to be the Antiquary's plaything when he wasn't even wanted there. All he had were these memories and he tried to sort out the good ones but they all ended bad. Jean Luc settled for exile when they wanted to kill him, the Antiquary threw him happily to Fagan, who was more than willing to let Jean Luc take him in, and he had happy memories just until Julian died. And he tried not to let his mind wander to exile, he tried not to see in his mind the way they looked at him at the trial. Like a monster. Even less than a mutant. Less than the mosquitoes Tante Mattie used to slice out of the air with a net. Tante had always loved him most of all the Guild children, if only because Remy, now complete with a name, was the Thief King's son. He had to keep walking, keep on going, if he stopped he was a dead man and everyone who tried, they won. He had scars on his chest from where Sabretooth had tried to kill him in the Morlock tunnels. He was repenting for something he hadn't done. He had almost convinced himself he hadn't been involved when they told him, he led them there, every moment was his fault, every Morlock that died was by his hands. He should suffer just as much as every one of them. One life of his for each of theirs, kill him again and again. In the cold eternal day of Antarctica, death was a welcome relief. He could suffer as much as every one of them forever out here with nothing to watch but the raging snow. His walls weren't up enough to joke about looking for penguins, and there was no one to joke to.

He could hardly stay awake, clutched to himself and rubbed futile at his arms. His eyes skipped open and shut, closed longer each time. He didn't think he would wake again if he let himself sleep. So he kept walking, pushing, towards what he couldn't tell but he had to push towards something. If there was anything left of the citadel he could hide and die out of the elements. Maybe he would forget he was in so much pain. Some medicine poison he could destroy himself before the world did that for him. Everyone won, everyone lost, they didn't get to kill him themselves. At least suicide gave him the gift of control. Control he had never been given, fighting to survive, his exile from every place he had a certainty. He could feel his Angel's arms, warm arms, warm open he had to fight for with everything he had. One night spent in those arms, fighting for love when fate took it's hold on a miserable life if he even deserved that. His Angel, his only Angel, the one thing he wanted, only thing he thought maybe he could ask for- to be touched in kindness, held the way Jean-Luc used to hold him when he would fall asleep in the chair by Tante Mattie's fire. Make so he didn't always have to look out for himself, someone else would love him and take care of him and be certain he ate and rested and didn't blow up anything he wasn't supposed to. And the more he worried about himself and the more he thought of the horrible things the ice glowed and shook under him, he feared sinking himself and at the same time wondered what it would be like to drown. He grasped, dragged himself along the ice and in the distance saw scraps of the citadel's remains. He lived, he wasn't sure how but he lived. He couldn't feel his fingers, the scars on his chest throbbed like something alive. He curled into the floor of the citadel and prayed, no longer conscious enough to look for something with which to commit and unspeakable and live no longer on his own terms. His fingers grasped and his body trembled But at least it was dark and his eyes hurt no longer. They closed for minutes at a time, he started counting the seconds out loud, _un, deux, troix, quatre_ and became a love note to everyone who had pretended to love him- Oh _Ange_, oh Belle, Rogue didn't once, even once, you care? I know I more than know I done wrong by all you but I loved you pure. It's all I know how to do is love because it's all I ever wanted. I feel you, I feel what you feel and I can make it my own and make your needs mine I don't need anything in return all I ask you to care, just a little bit and need, just a little bit love me back. Tell me you care about me and you want me to be happy, find out what makes me smile. Or maybe some days what makes me come. Did you ever look at me and know you were going to break my heart? Because I don't mind, just so long as I get it back, eventually. You can always have my heart, all you have to do is ask.

The next time he closed his eyes, he knew, he would die. There would be no grave, no funeral for anyone to cry at, so no one would cry. No one would leave him flowers or tell him how they really felt, he wouldn't ever know who might have cared somewhere deep in the. He would die and he would go to hell and hell would be the Morlock tunnels trapped in between Sabretooth and Sinister and he would deserve every suffering, all the white devil was meant for. He closed his eyes and waited for the cold and the hunger to get him, for the exhaustion to kick in, sang himself the lullabies Tante and his father used to sing when he had nightmares, someone was there for him where there had been no one and there would be no one again. By this point he was accustomed to being abandoned, but he didn't know why he was still alive. It had begun to snow through a hole in the roof of the fallen citadel that they made his prison and his grave, and he didn't, couldn't, wouldn't ever hate them for it. There was a single white feather on the concrete floor and suddenly Remy wanted to live, he had to return it to it's body.


	14. Chapter 14

Six Months Later

Logan ran inside when he had never been afraid of the rain before. Warren didn't question it, only draped his arm over Betsy and changed the television program to check the next day's weather.

"Hey Worthington, I need the couch." Logan growled and kicked at Warren's shin.

"There's a chair right there."

"Ain't long enough. Move."

"It's long enough for you."

"And it ain't long enough for Gumbo and he needs to lie down."

"Who the fuck is Gumbo?"

"Gambit. Remy. Now move."

"Gambit's dead, Logan. Get over it."

"Then who am I carrying?"

Warren looked up, and, as clear as anything Remy was curled in Logan's arms, his duster coat torn and thin body soaking wet. Warren took Betsy's arm and stood from the couch, taking the chair, and Betsy taking space in his lap. Out the corner of his eye he watched Logan grab blankets and comfort the boy in whispers. He imagined going to him. He imagined pushing Betsy and Logan aside and tangling Remy in his arms, smoothing his hair back and kissing his cheeks and welcoming him home. Remy would cry and hold on to him and need him in a way Betsy didn't. It was all about the sex for them, like he had wanted it to be with Remy until it was and he started to care. And convinced himself Remy was a liar and a thief and a killer and a demon in the body, the most beautiful, wonderful body knew so well how to touch him, the body of a tiny mutant.

"Hypothermia." He heard Hank, his medical supplies dragged up against the couch. "He needs to be somewhere warm and be allowed to rest. Take him down to the lab, we'll talk there."

Warren almost got up, Betsy's soft hand on his shoulder. "Don't make things worse." She pushed him back to the chair.

Logan was always around the boy. Overprotective, did everything but threaten Warren to stay away. Over the gossip channels of the mansion he was told the boy was brought in very near dead, was still resting, suffered from nightmares and had become even more incoherent than before. He overheard Ororo confide to Jean, over coffee, even she didn't understand him. He had to stay away from the medic bay, the only way he knew about Remy's state was overhearing the three people in the mansion who cared about him. And from one all he got was a growl and the awful reek of a man who forgot to bathe when he was concerned.

"How's Remy?" He had to ask sometime.

Logan glared. "What makes you care?"

"I'm concerned, is all."

"Thought you wanted the kid to suffer."

"Is he suffering?"

"Bet'cher scrawny ass." Logan shoved Warren against the wall to pass him. "You get near Gumbo and I skewer ya'."

"I just want to see him."

"You just wanna' make him leave."

"I won't make him go anywhere."

"I'll be watching you. Stay the hell away from him." Another halfhearted shove and Logan brushed past him.

So he had to find Ororo. If anyone knew about their brief love affair it would be her- and she would blame him for Remy's state. He took the blame already, he was loathe to have someone reaffirm his guilt. But he approached her anyway, a cup of tea to soothe her temper in his hands.

"Can I talk to you?"

"What is it Warren?" Her shoulders tensed, but she accepted the peace offering.

"I just want to know how Remy is."

"What mind of it is yours?"

"I guess I'm a little worried about him."

"He loved you."

"I know."

"Did you ever, even once-"

"Did I love him back? Yeah. For about a week, until Antarctica."

"He is recovering, albeit slowly."

"Logan won't let me see him."

"I do not blame him."

"Will you? Um, let me see him I mean."

"If he will see you."

"Could you ask?"

She nodded, her elegant form swept along the floor to the medical wing. Warren was almost hesitant to follow, but he had to. Logan, Remy's ever-present guardian, rewarded him with a glare and a snort, a threatening raise of claw as he was exiled from the room. He could only watch as Ororo held Remy's arm, spoke quietly, and finally beckoned to Warren.

Remy was dwarfed by the wires, tubes, machines he allowed himself to be plugged into. There was no petulant resistance, hardly any emotion at all. His eyes were almost completely black. They flickered over Warren, the barest inklings of a smile touched his face.

Ororo graced his shoulder. "I will be watching, lest you think to hurt him."

"_Homme_ ain'goin' do nuffin'a' me." He was quiet, his voice a little hoarse and raised hardly above a whisper.

They were alone. Warren's first instinct was to raise the large blankets that kept the boy warm, tuck him into the hospital bed. And all of him, every part of him wanted to hold on, the same feeling he had in the hotels taking him to New Orleans. That same protective feeling but he sat at the end of the bed and wondered when Remy became so small.

"_Mon Ange_ com'a visi' me?"

"I came to see if you were alright."

"Be goo'ventually."

"Good."

"_Ange_ move on, didn'he?"

"I thought you were dead."

"You ha'e Remy, don' you?"

Warren couldn't answer. He didn't know. It was easier when he hadn't been there, to imagine the whole thing was a lie, that Remy had never cared about him, manipulated his feelings, used him the way he had been intending to use Remy. It was easier to pretend he didn't have feelings. He sat with Remy in thick silence until he fell asleep again.

"All the telepaths in the mansion can feel it," Betsy combed her hair back for bed, "he's making it colder."

"I'll see if Hank can do something about it, would you?"

"Yeah, I guess I can." He could see Remy's fallen face in the back of his mind knowing what he was doing to the others. He probably didn't know. She was too polite to read his mind, didn't know they had ever been together, he didn't want her to know. Didn't know how she would react. And as much as he loved the idyllic, beautiful life he had with a former model telepath, someone he could take out and show off; he wanted his Remy back.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Depressing chapter. RIP Nightcrawler, now to start the timer for when he comes back. I like reviews and little notes and constructive criticism but I don't like mean for the sake of mean. AIM- isnotaboutdrag

He wanted the old Remy, the boy before he knew the atrocities he had committed. He was aware it was the same boy, didn't make it hurt any less. He didn't like hiding in the corners around the medic bay hoping to see a glimpse of Remy as he tried to walk. He gripped Logan's arm with white knuckles and shook with every step, shaking and leaning against him. Glaring fluorescent lights pulsed against his eyes and he wondered how much pain Remy was in, remembered sitting with him, the confession that the light did him no good. He was a little bit envious of the grip Remy had on Logan's arm, even if it was nothing more than a simple walk. The torn brown duster coat he was never without was draped over a chair, burnt at the bottom and dirty. To him it reflected Remy in a horrible sort of way. He was hugging Logan, and jealousy choked Warren and forced him to leave.

"You've become someone else, Warren."

"I'm sorry Betsy, It's just, this whole thing-"

"With Gambit."

"Yeah."

She slid her arm around his shoulders and didn't know the half of it. "He hurt you badly, didn't he?"

"More than."

"Scott's campaigning to have him evicted as soon as he's healed."

_S'de only place Remy never been kick outta._ Warren heard him in the back of his mind and a part of him wanted to cry. "You on his side?" he asked instead.

"Yes. He hurt you, and whether he knows it or not he's torturing the telepaths."

"But can we really do that?"

"You heard what he did to the Morlocks, Warren, you know what he did to you, you're still recovering."

"You're right," he lied, knew he was lying, "We're better off without him." And he made love to her anyway, bought into his perfect life. Without Remy there would be no temptation to have anything else. She slept sound and he was able to escape back down to the medlab to find Remy alone and awake. He flicked a lighter on and off and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was still plugged into a machine that counted his heartbeats.

"_Bonne nuit, Ange._" A whisper.

"You're not trying to smoke in the lab, are you?"

"_Non_. _Henri_ make me quit."

"You're actually quitting?"

Remy laughed, spiteful. "Jus'll when me ge' outta' 'ere. You ne'er have'a see 'dis'un 'gain an' I smoke like no 'omorrow."

"You're leaving?"

"O'me own free will, don' go'a kick me ou'."

"You're not gonna' give Scott the satisfaction."

"Don' wanna' be tol'a leave again."

"I don't want you to leave."

"So's you'an make 'dis t'ief's life worse?"

"No, I just want you around."

Remy looked up at him on the verge of tears. "Wha'if I don' wanna' be here?"

"Do you?"

"Be wif' you, _Ange_ I be anywhere."

"How can you keep saying that to me?" He sat in the chair across from Remy and sought some sort of expression in the boy's face. He took Remy's hand, squeezed it gently. "I warned you this would never work."

"I keep thinkin' maybe if I love you enough…" Remy trailed off, pulled his hand away. He held onto himself and watched the machine that watched his heart. "If Remy hur' too much will it stop?"

"I don't want it to stop."

"Some days me, I do."

"You're lying." Warren crossed his arms, leaned back in the chair. He couldn't deal with Remy wanting to be lost. He got up to leave the boy alone in the room again.

"Don' leave, _sil vous plais_?" Remy held his hands out.

Warren sat beside him on the hospital bed. "Betsy says you're making the telepaths miserable."

"Don' mean to. She good'a you?" Remy made sure they sat close enough to touch, this close to leaning on him, but there was something of Remy that they would never get back, lost in Antarctica. He was tiny, he was shaking and he needed to be held and from his seat he could almost feel the cold that still clung to the boy who wouldn't touch him.

"She's good enough to me. Maybe you should talk to someone."

"Do you love her?"

He had to tell the truth to someone, he figured it might do him well to tell someone who wouldn't let the truth infect things. "Not really."

"Bu'cher' gonna' stay wif'er, right?'

"Probably."

"She's beau'i'ful."

"Yeah."

"She love you?"

"I think so."

Remy leaned his head on Warren's shoulder, finally. "Is summer, _non_?" His voice trembled slightly.

"Yeah, I guess, it's June."

"S'cold."

"No, you're cold. Want me to get you more blankets?"

"_Henri_ says I can't have. Some'in 'bout getting temperature back'a normal."

"Makes sense. He just wants you to get better, he's a good person like that."

"Don' wan' 'dis'un 'ta leave jus' ye', he got more 'speriments for me."

"He's not experimenting on you, Gambit."

"How you know?"

"I trust Hank."

"Leave Remy'a' die."

Warren stood, made himself hug the boy. It was all he could give him, this one short embrace to show there was no hatred between them, love lost but it could be found if they tried. Remy felt right in his arms, more right than he could remember it being. Sad that he could feel Remy's ribs under his arms, sad that he knew the boy wasn't eating on his own. Remy clung to him like he would die without.

"You make 'dis one live _Ange_."

"No, I told them you shouldn't live."

"I live so's I see you again."

"No, Remy, no. You're beautiful, and you're smarter than you look and even though you make some bad choices you're a good catch and you're wasting yourself with this stupid crush. I'm staying with Betsy and I don't love you, I never will," he took a deep breath, "I'm sorry."

Remy cried. He never cried openly, he would hide away or hold it in but this time he cried, for all he had lost, Warren supposed. Rogue had said something about leaving him in the cold because he had no desire to live, maybe it was that they had broken him. Warren couldn't stay to watch, and when he returned to his room, Betsy too was gone from his bed and he laid awake knowing Remy cried himself to sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

Author: Happy chapter for you this time. Thanks to my wonderful reviewers and all the story favorite-ers and alert-ers and all the people who give me love. Just likely four or five more to go from here, then, well, been thinking I want to try my hand at writing Logan.

He ended up following Betsy back to England and when he couldn't see Remy it was much easier to let him go. After a while he just wanted to stay there with her instead. She didn't want to stay with him.

"You had a dream, Warren, a good dream and it wasn't about me. Go back to the mansion, sort these things out."

"Why do you think going back will help?"

"Because I know who you dreamt of."

"And he said he was leaving, and damned if I'm not happy about it."

"Go back. Settle this. We, as a we, cannot happen if you don't love me."

He was on a plane back to New York. He tried to fantasize about reconciling with Betsy, tried to dream of the perfect life he had, but every make up lovemaking was with Remy. He would close his eyes and point his mind to her kiss and he would taste his, the imperfect taste of nicotine and liquor and spice. He tried to imagine a happy time with Betsy and instead remembered, so clearly, the trepidation with which Remy held his hand and he knew the boy did all this because he loved him. He had the rest of the eight hour flight to come to terms with that. He wondered if Remy was warm, if he had moved on or moved out or found someone else with which to share that incredible love, he wondered if he ate on his own now, he wondered if he was even still alive. He had been on the border for so long. But he had done his best to convince Warren he loved him and all Warren did was tempt him and leave. Offer him something and cry loudest for his death.

By the time the plane landed, Warren had resolved to find Remy and kiss him past breathless.

He wasn't in the mansion, neither were his things. Logan only growled when Warren asked, but Ororo told him he had been relocated to the cabin on the lake, about half a mile away, on the edge of the mansion property. He wondered if Remy had exiled himself there, or it was forced on him. Last time he had checked, the cabin had a fireplace but no heating. This time Remy was curled in front of it, buried in a blanket Warren had given him, empty liquor bottles near his hands. The door had been unlocked, so much unlike him, he didn't wake, there was nothing in his hands to charge. Somehow, Warren felt unwelcome in this place. The loneliness had a flavor, heavy in the room, and it tasted like liquor and nicotine. He sat in front of Remy, pushed his hair away from his face and watched the rise and fall of his chest. The movements were light, he hardly shifted despite being curled on the hardwood floor. His head was cradled in his arms, there was a bruise on his cheekbone and a scab from a broken lip. One hand was bandaged, fingers in a splint for broken bones. He had been fighting.

Warren tucked a pillow under his head, found a bottle of painkillers, mostly empty, and a cup of coffee for when he woke. His form had become almost too small, but Warren couldn't cook, so he made his way to the mansion and took food from the cupboards, grateful the place was almost empty. He reheated leftover pasta on a stove that smelled of gasoline, heard Remy in the other room but couldn't pinpoint the emotion behind the sound. He pulled the food off the stovetop and ran to him either way.

He was having a nightmare, curled into himself his knuckles were white and his face beaded with sweat that stuck his hair to his defined cheekbones. He mumbled a little bit, in a way with no coherent words to Warren, though they may have made sense to someone else. Warren brushed his fingers along Remy's forehead, he was feverish.

"Remy, wake up, it's just a dream." He shook the boy's shoulder softly, but got nothing in return. The second time he tried Remy pulled away. So he did the only thing he could think to do, despite the fever sleep, Warren laid beside him and comforted him through the dream.

"Don' move lemme' be happy f'a minute," Remy's eyes took a moment to focus when he woke up.

"I won't move." Warren held him close, tightened the blanket around him. "Not until you tell me too."

Remy sighed happily. "'Dis a nice dream." He curled closer to Warren, the contented smile of a cat stretched across his features. They touched through Remy's blanket, and he waited for the boy to realize he wasn't dreaming anymore.

When he did, he shoved away apologizing. He acted like he was certain he wasn't wanted and he avoided even looking at Warren. He snatched the bottle of painkillers and took four, shaking hard. Dumped each bottle of liquor looking for anything left. There was a splash left in a vodka bottle and he used it to swallow the pills. Warren grabbed his hand.

"_Ange_?"

"It's me, Remy."

"Tol' me you weren' comin' 'round anymore."

"Here I am."

"M'dead, ain' I?"

"No, but you're certainly trying."

Remy lit a cigarette, perched between his fingers and looked at the fireplace, the warmth long since burnt out. He held up the blanket, "Wan' some warm wif' me?"

Warren nodded, curled under the blanket with Remy and slipped his arm around him. This was his resolve from the flight, to be with the man he dreamt about, or what was left of him either way. The smell of Remy's cigarette bothered him, but he wouldn't complain, for once, it felt too good to just sit on the floor and hold him. Under any other circumstances he wouldn't even sit on the floor, would drag Remy up to the couch or nearest chair, deem himself too good for the floor.

Remy snubbed out the half finished cigarette. "You don' like much 'de smell, do ya'?"

"Not really no."

"'Den I quit."

Warren stammered. "You- you don't have to, I mean, you should keep the things you like. I think, I mean…"

Remy laughed. "'Dis one t'inks he'd ra'er keep his _Ange_."


	17. Chapter 17

Author: One down, two more chapters to go. Three if my plotting starts to suck.

"Yeah, I guess this time I am here to stay."

"Wan' ya' a'promise 'dis once."

He tilted Remy's face to catch his eyes, kissed him and wasn't put off by the strong flavor of cigarettes or the fact that Remy held his gaze the entire time. "I promise I'm going to give this my best effort. I think I really do want to be with you this time."

Remy curled close to him halfway between crying and laughing. "'Dis the par' where we kiss?"

"I think this is the part where you promise to get better for me. Brought you coffee and food? I even poured too much sugar in the coffee like you like it."

"'F I do will you kiss me?"

"Yeah."

"'Dis'un ge' all be'er for his _Ange_."

"I'll have to come up with something really special when you are, shouldn't I?"

"_Non_, jus' s'ay."

"As long as you'll have me."

"F'rever." Remy picked at the food, drank the coffee eagerly, became more alive with each movement. He held out the half eaten bowl, smiled. "I ge' 'dat kiss now?"

Warren tried to resist his laugh, "Yeah, I promised didn't I?" He leaned over and kissed Remy gently, trailed his hand through the boy's unkempt auburn hair, and Remy wouldn't let the kiss end. He did all but crawl into Warren's lap to get closer, stopped when he could feel Warren's heartbeat against his chest.

They made love on the floor in front of the dying fire and Remy whispered words of love in every language he knew. It wasn't about the sex, Warren barely noticed the sex over the force of finally knowing how much he was loved. It crashed into him like waves on a rocky beach, perfect chords in a symphony at the concert hall his mother took him to when he was very young. Remy's arms around him, barely breathless whispers of love as they connected in every way they could. And even after that Remy lay with his head between Warren's wings and ran his fingers along them, singing little lullabies.

Still he was too spoiled to consider the idea of sleeping on the floor, no matter how enticing Remy made the idea seem. He got up and pulled his pants back on, to look for a bed he could take Remy to.

"Where _Ange_ goin'?"

"Bed."

"Don' leave me."

"M' not. You can come with."

"Nudder' round when we get there?"

"Not this time. Maybe later."

Remy pouted. "Fine."

Warren started to walk up the stairs.

"_Ange_?"

"Huh?"

"D'ya' even wan' 'dis one 'gain?"

"Of course. I'm fighting the urge to run down these stairs and have you again and forbid you from ever putting clothes back on. But I wanna' try and make this actually work." He sighed.

"Me too."

"For which?"

"Both," Remy laughed. "Bu 'de bed s'ill in 'de mansion, pack kinda' quick like, y'know." He sat up, pulled the blanket around his small form.

"No I don't know. Why?"

"Scott 'as talkin' 'bout wan'in' me gone, dead like."

"He wanted you dead?"This wasn't the Scott Summers Warren knew. But he wasn't sure anymore to what lengths their fearless leader would go to protect his own.

"T'ink so. I ran 'way, bu' no' too far case you came back."

"Do you want me to go get your things?"

"'Dey know you ou' 'ere wif' me?"

"Ororo does, at least, she told me where you were."

Something akin to determination crossed Remy's face and he dressed slowly, methodically, and walked out the door. Warren flew close overhead as the boy made his way to the mansion, trenchcoat pulled tight around his shoulders and still burnt at the bottom. He fingered a deck of cards and chewed his lower lip, mouth forming words he would never say. Looked up at Warren and tried to smile and handed him the king of hearts. So Warren let himself land to wrap his arm around Remy's shoulders, walk alongside him. Remy stood at the back door of the mansion for a long time. His hand would raise to knock but he wouldn't, he looked in the window, he took out his package of cigarettes and put it away. Then let the pack fall to the ground and threw his arms around Warren. Those arms, Warren had missed being held like he was needed. He kissed Remy's cheek, then his lips, whispered that it was alright. He ran his hand through the boy's hair and moved his face to find his eyes. They were clouded, but he smiled earnestly and knocked on the door. Pulled away to face it, but Warren held his hand and rubbed his thumb over Remy's defined knuckles.

Hank answered the door and a broad smile expanded his feline features. He pulled Remy inside and held him close.

"Remy, welcome, welcome!" He was exuberant, lifted the tall, lanky boy clean off the ground. "You've come back," setting him down, "but I still want to check your vitals, I'm worried." He let Remy go and the boy shied away.

"What's wrong with him?" Warren's hand fell to the small of his new lover's back.

"I'm just worried about his power levels- he hasn't let me have one look at him since he came back."

"Does he ever?"

Hank turned to Remy, "Do you mind letting me get a look at you?"

He shied away, but nodded, stepped closer to Warren and let the man wrap his arm around him. They guided him not unwilling to the lab, and he sat on the bed, swung his legs over, and watched with darting, nervous eyes while the doctor took his signs of life into account. He winced away from the prick of drawn blood, but watched with an odd fascination, the thick red made Warren a little sick to his stomach. He hated the sight of blood, the smell was worse, thick, toxic, like old pennies. He had never become acclimated to it like the others had. But Remy's eyes followed him and he would have hated himself for leaving. He had promised to love this man. And he would.


	18. Chapter 18

Dear Internet: I have a kitten. His name is Jonathon Brigsby, and he doesn't like it when I type. He thinks my fingers are enemies. I love you Internet, very much. This is not the end.

He paced the lab while Hank spoke to his new lover in a low voice, tested him, reminded him to take care of himself.

He heard Hank laugh appreciatively. "Warren, Remy tells me you've convinced him to give up those accursed cigarettes of his, I must thank you."

"Wasn't me. I just didn't like the smell."

"I do so _Ange_ don' have ta' smell."

"I make no assumptions about your relationship. I'll just run all these samples and I'll let you know if anything comes up." He closed his computer, labeled all the samples- tissue, blood, things Warren didn't try to figure out. "Now, what was it you came to the mansion for in the first place? It certainly wasn't for me."

"Need somma' my t'ings."

"Of course."

"Mebbeh' help wif' 'de bed?"

"Logan and I will move it for you." Hank ruffled his hair gently. "There's no bed in the cabin?"

"Look like someone destroy on purpose."

"I will never fathom why the others think to treat you that way Remy."

"I deserve."

Warren sat behind him on the hospital bed, wrapped both arms around his shoulders. "Don't even think that. These people should be worshipping you, the way you forgive them."

Remy relaxed against him, laid his head against Warren's shoulder. "Don' coun' me out all 'de wrong doin's."

Warren smoothed his hair back, kissed his cheek. "We'll work on it."

"Promise?"

"Promise." Warren smiled, and helped him from the bed. "Come on, I should get some of my stuff too."

"Can I come wif?"

"Huh?"

"Don' wanna' be 'lone 'ere." Remy looked down, held on to himself. "Don' wan' anybody know I was 'ere."

"You of all people can can make it look like you were never there."

Remy grinned. "Guess so. Don' need depend on you, does Remy now?"

Warren laughed and kissed him gently. "I'll meet you outside?"

He nodded, hugged Hank before he took off running.

"What did he do to his hand?"

Hank sighed. "He went out drinking with Logan while you were gone and came back mostly like that. I had to bandage him. He moved into the cabin the same night. I thought Scott would do him serious harm if he saw the boy like that."

"You told him to move?"

"No, I was only worried for him. I'm worried for you, as well. Don't push yourself into anything, Warren my friend, you cannot create feelings if there's nothing there." Hank sat at his computer, pushed glasses up his nose.

"I love him." Warren merely grabbed the same bag he had taken to England with Betsy. He filled a travel pack with food, water, a bottle of liquor he found hidden in the back of a cupboard. He thought Remy would like it. Heard nothing in the house, it was too late, by this point Scott, perhaps Logan were just about ready to get up. He finished packing, and let himself outside as quietly as he could manage. Remy was watching the sun rise.

"Hey _Ange_?"

"Yeah?"

"Wan' me'a' call you by your real name?"

"I think I'd like to hear it at least once."

"When I was really li'l, me, sometimes I wish I'd fly away." He smiled, and walked quietly back to the cabin.

"Me too."

"How come? You 'ad everytin."

"Too much either way gets hard. I had things, but not people."

"Me, some day both, some day neither." Remy shrugged, nervous entwined his fingers with Warren's.

"I saw the picture, the one of you and your dad at the ocean. He loved you, didn't he?" Warren smiled, squeezed his hand to let him know it was alright to be there.

"I think so, yeah." The smile that touched Remy's young features brightened the orange dawn. He hitched his duffel bag over his shoulder and leaned against Warren, not letting his hand go, smiling peaceful with his guard down.

Logan was sitting on the porch of the cabin with his cigar lit. "Doc said to bring down the bed, so I did." He sighed, and tossed what was left of the cigar into an ash tray that was left outside. "Wings is just gonna' hurt you kid. But I guess you need to get hurt sometimes to figure out you're fuckin' up." He wrapped Remy in a deep embrace, "I'll be here when you figure it all out."

Remy whispered something that Warren didn't quite catch and let Logan go. The shorter man kicked at the ground and moved quietly back onto the mansion grounds, headed toward the woods.

Warren ushered Remy into the cabin and dropped his bags. "What was that?" His hand landed on Remy's shoulder and gently turned the boy to face him.

"Logan think he love me. He jus' wanna' protect 'dis one."

"You like him?"

"As a friend." Remy laughed, "Don' ge'cher panties in a bunch _Ange_. I love you." As if to prove his point he threw himself, arms and legs into Warrens arms and kissed him passionate, teeth and tongue and a wide, smiling mess. Warren carried him upstairs as best he could without dropping the lanky boy, the one who still tried to kiss him as best he could while laughing, Warren found himself laughing for it.

Someone knocked. Gently, Warren set Remy down at the top of the stairs and tumbled back down to peek out the window. Scott was standing at the door, arms crossed, pretending not to listen to whatever Jean had to say on the situation.


	19. Chapter 19

Author: Penultimate chapter. EchoDancer, I'm working on your fic, it's kind of quirky and fun.

Remy pushed past him and opened the door for them, a huge, concealing smile across his face.

"What brings Fearless Leader all 'de way ou' in 'dese neck of 'de woods?"

"Warren, outside. We need to talk."

Remy tried to follow, and Scott pushed him back. "Jean wanted to talk to you, Gambit."

He swallowed, tried to say something, but all that came out was a choked "yessir," as he sat on the couch, head low.

Scott shut the door and checked to make sure Remy wasn't spying. "Whatever. Little thief's probably still got a way to listen in."

"What's this about, Summers?" Warren crossed his arms and leaned on the door.

"I need you back on my team."

"I'm back."

"Not with the Cajun following you around you're not. We need him gone, it's too dangerous to have someone so ready to switch sides knowing our secrets."

"Scott, do you have any idea what you're doing to this kid?"

"What needs to be done for my team."

"He has nowhere else to go."

"Gambit can take care of himself, Warren. He'll listen to you- send him away."

"What about what he already knows?"

"S'why I brought Jean."

"She won't do that to him."

Scott snorted. "You're probably right. But do you think he'd really get you or Ororo hurt?'

"Would you do this to any of us? I went crazy, tried to kill everyone, and you're begging me back on your team? Remy already hates himself for what he did, he's just a kid, Scott, please. Think about what you're doing."

"I thought about it. He's too dangerous. You've been with us longer, we know how to handle you, Gambit doesn't even know how to handle himself."

"He leaves, I do."

"Warren don't be stupid."

"This isn't stupid. I'm in love."

Scott grimaced, crossed his arms and turned away. "Group meeting, first thing tomorrow. Drag Gambit, kicking and screaming if you have to. We'll put it to vote."

"Don't make me do this. If he leaves, I go, and what happens to all your funding?"

"We'll figure something out."

"Fine. Eight in the morning?"

"Don't be late." Scott started his way back across the mansion grounds and Warren let himself sink to the floor. He hadn't been without the comfort of the Xavieer mansion to fall back on since he was a teenager. It was, by this point, inexorably entwined with his being, his safety blanket, the one place he knew he could go back to. Even his family didn't have that distinction. He didn't know if he was yet prepared to leave it behind, even for so overwhelming an idea as love. The mansion was silhouetted by the rising sun, as foreboding as it had been when he came here, a barely teenaged boy with wings. He wished for nothing more than that simplicity back in his life, but a simpler version of now, because the mansion seemed less without Remy's infectious laugh through the halls. The laugh he heard coming from inside. Only the Thief Prince could be laughing in the face of what he was going through.

The door creaked, Warren noted. "_Ange_ c'n come in if he like."

"Yeah, thanks." He took Remy's arm, kissed his cheek. Jean was sitting on the couch, a cup of coffee in her hands. She looked at peace.

"You've made Remy so happy." She settled into the couch. "His mind is clearer than I can remember it, he actually let me in a little."

"That's great."

"Did Scott…?" Her eyebrows creased.

"He left. Don't think he's real thrilled with what's happening."

"I tried to talk him out of it, but he's set."

"He's gonna' lose me too, then."

"I'll try again." She stood, held Remy for a moment, then Warren. "We'll get this worked out right."

"Thanks Jean." He saw her out the door, took one last look at the mansion and shut the door on it.

"Remy?"

"_Mon amour_?"

"Meeting tomorrow."

"'Dey jus' gonna' tell me can' be 'ere no more."

"And I'm going to tell them you're staying."

"Don' wanna' be where I ain' wanted."

"Then I'll leave with you. Where do you want to go?" He sat beside Remy on the couch, slipped his arm around him. "Anywhere."

"Someplace warm, but my Warren don' have'a' leave his home on account'o' me." Remy curled into him and pulled the blanket over his long body.

"I want to go with you. I'm, well, I gave in. I love you, Remy."

Remy turned and kissed him, put his hand on Warren's leg to push himself face to face with the other man, pressed his lips to his, smiling softly. Warren slipped his hand into the soft hairs that fell over the back of Remy's neck and tilted the boy into the kiss, opening his mouth, running his tongue over the boy's lower lip until he gasped, taking advantage of that reaction to deepen it, teeth and tongue, making the boy weak, until Remy was completely in his lap.

"I love you right back." He smiled.

"So where do you want to go?"

"C'n we go to 'de ocean?"

"Which one?"

"It don' matter."

"Then how do I know where to take you?" Warren laughed, brushed his hand along Remy's cheek.

"How 'bout you an' me make love, 'den we figure ou' where to go." Remy ran his hand down Warren's torso and threaded the other one in pure blond hair.

"Yeah, that works too. You made love in that bed yet?"

Remy blushed deep. "Kin'a was' savin' it for you."


	20. Chapter 20 End

Author: It's been nice. Expect to hear more from me.

Good night.

They made love, and Remy promised him everything so many times over he couldn't wonder if it was insincere. His bed was small, they curled close to sleep but Warren couldn't complain. Remy found the place between his wings, nestled his head there and talked a little in his sleep. Being with this boy was making Warren wish he had paid attention in French. He wondered what was more important, loving him or the place he had found all those years ago with his X-Men, he wondered if he couold find himself a new place in the world, one where he could be with Remy.

"_Ange_?"

"Hmm?"

"You awake?"

"Yeah I guess so. Why?"

"You don' have'a go nowhere. I move somewhere close, we be 'gether anyway."

"That doesn't sound fair to you." Warren rolled onto his side and watched Remy curl up against him, moved his hand through the boy's hair.

"Bu' it 'de easiest way."

"The easiest way isn't always the right way, though. Come on, we should catch Scott's damned meeting."

"You t'ink 'Ro 'n Logan'll defend me?"

"Yeah. And I will, so will Jean, probably, Hank, too. Remy, this is Scott's stupid campaign, not ours."

Remy smiled, but buried himself deeper in the blankets. "'Dis'un already resign himself'a' leavin'."

"Resign's a big word for you, isn't it?" Warren laughed it off, kissed his lover's brow.

"Play nice, I ain' 'dat stupid." He smiled, "Papa taught me while I live wif' him."

"So you just don't want people to know you're smart, huh?"

"Is 'de accent, people t'ink 'm dumb." Remy laughed, swung himself out of bed. "Guess we go to Fearless Leader's meetin' 'den?"

The meeting was as expected, Remy was allowed to stay but had to earn his way back on the team. Scott made certain it was known that one misstep would get him banished, and Warren made it known that the moment Remy left, so did he. But his voice quavered, and he wasn't sure if, when the time came, he could hold true to that. Remy was uncharacteristically silent as the group decided his face, he reached for Warren's hand and gripped close to it, said nothing to defend himself. When he dared to glance at the boy, there were tears in his black eyes. The red irises glistened wet, fine brow furrowed and he sunk into himself to look at nothing.

"Dis'un real glad he liked enough be let'a' stay, but he don' wanna' be where he ain' wan'ed."

"Kid-" Logan started.

"_Non_." Remy stood and let Warren's hand fall from his. "Don' need'a' be a burden on any o'you anymore."

He left, and Warren discovered he didn't have it in him to follow.

Just to pass the time, he read Hank's medical records. The boy he loved had only been twenty years old, he had a long history of promiscuity and drug use, gladly tapered out by the time he came to the mansion. Gladly had been added by the doctor himself. His lover had a piece of his brain missing, his powers had exploded when it began to grow back. He might have been an empath, may have explained the charm.

He took the blanket they slept under out of the cabin and buried himself in it until it no longer smelt of Remy. More than once, when winter started, he slept in a hooded sweatshirt the Thief Prince had left behind. He tried to teach himself French to read the books still on the shelf, but the pictures had been taken down. His bed was empty and the mansion was quiet. The cabin was uninhabited and the room on the third floor felt like a ghost, still lingering with feeling and purple glow and tobacco smoke. But still he found himself sitting in that empty room, in that chair and staring out the window at the sky. Once he burned a left behind cigarette to ash just to pretend the room had an inhabitant.

He never stopped looking for him, everywhere he went he kept an eye out, turned his head to every tall streak of auburn hair, every brush of brown duster made him look. No one tried to comfort him, he never quite moved on.

Winter's darkest months brought with them an invitation, a social event in Paris he couldn't afford to lose face at. He wished he could show Remy the city, even though he knew he'd already been. He longed for Remy's arm to hold onto as he walked the streets solo, his wings clasped down. Too many long coats to shield themselves from the snow, too many faces lit by the glow of a cigarette, voices whispering in a language he associated with being loved. If he had ever been loved at all, Fall had brought with it doubt that persisted into the snow. It didn't stop the dreams of running away with him, dreams uninhibited by his real responsibilities to the people he knew as family. He thought he was still dreaming when he caught the face in the café window. He covered his eyes and the coat was pulled up close, black gloves covered his hands entirely. His auburn hair was tied back by what looked like an old shoelace, he barely chanced a smile to the pretty waitress when she set down his coffee. It was the shaking way he poured sugar into the cup that made Warren run in.

And wonder how to approach a man eight months not out of his mind. He sat at another table and hoped the boy would notice. He would be twenty-one, only by a few days, he had memorized the approximated birth date in Hank's file, hoping he would have a chance to buy him a gift. He still could. If only the boy would look up from the notebook he scribbled furiously in. Bit his lower lip in a way that Warren knew meant he was thinking. He grabbed the coffee cup, looked in it, then up to signal the waitress. Barely a moment before their eyes glanced over each other, the cup began to glow along with his gloves, he dropped it and the room fell to silence. Where there had been conversation, bystanders, lovers and old friends, there was silence. He wasn't sure he was allowed to approach, instead got up to leave in the ensuing commotion the silence had brought after.

He heard running, the crunch in the snow, a hand caught his. "_Mon dieu, mon Ange, tu __rêves_?" His voice was harsh and barely a whisper.

"Hi Remy."

The boy threw his arms around him, and, for the first time, Warren trusted his first inclination and held him back. "Never thought I'd ge' 'dis chance again." Barely words behind tears. "T'ough' I had'a leave you f'r good."

"You didn't have to leave me at all."

He let Remy alternate between laughing and sobbing into his arms, stroked the soft hair, kissed his temple.

"But I think I'll just take my time getting back now. Care to join me?"

"I go anywhere my _Ange_ go."

"Well, I've always wanted to see the world."


	21. Author's Note

Author: Thought I'd leave you with the lyrics from the song the title comes from. It's called "A Song to Pass the Time" and it's from Fevers and Mirrors by Bright Eyes. Beautiful song, beautiful album for the indie inclined.

Also, I'm working on a Logan and Remy fic, and a gift fic for the incomparable EchoDancer. You're wonderful. In fact, you're all wonderful. I hope you enjoyed.

There is a middle-aged woman, she's dragging her feet.

She carries baskets of clothes to a laundromat.

While the Mexican children kick rocks into the street

and they laugh in a language I don't understand.

But I love them.

Why do I love them?

So the neighborhood is dimming, I smoke on the porch

and watch the people as they pass enclosed inside their cars.

And on their faces just anger or disappointment.

I start wishing there was something I could offer them.

A consolation, what could I offer them?

And they are sad in their suburbs robots water the lawn

and everything they touch gets dusted spotless.

So they start to believe that they've not touched anything at all.

And the cars in the driveway only multiply.

Well, They are lost in their houses.

I've heard them sing in the shower

and making speeches to their sister on the telephone.

Saying, You come home.

Darling, you come here.

Don't stay so far away from me.

This weather has me wanting love more tangible.

Something I can hold because it's getting cold.

I said, hold up our fists to the flame in the sky

to block out the light that is reaching for our eyes

because it, because it would blind us. Yeah, It will blind us.

Well, I have locked my actions in the grooves of routine.

So I may never be free of this apathy.

But I wait for a letter that is coming to me.

She sends me pictures of the ocean in an envelope.

So there still is hope.

Yes, I can be healed.

There is someone looking for what I concealed in my secret drawer,

in my pockets deep,

you will find the reasons that I can't sleep and you will still want me.

But will you still want me?

Well, I say come for the week.

You can sleep in my bed.

And then pass through my life like a dream through my head.

It will, it will be easy. I will make it easy.

But all I have for the moment is a song to pass the time.

Yeah, a melody to keep me from worrying.

Oh, some simple progression to keep my fingers busy.

And words that are sure to come back to me and they'll be laughing.

And they'll be laughing. My mediocrity.


End file.
